


Vignettes

by 221A_brina



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: #unrealisticgoals, 21 April 2018, BYO Fic, Bitch slappin' the muse into submission, Crashing the party, Flash Free Flash Challenge Fics, Gatecrasher, Gave it my best shot, Gen, Hot & sweaty Jack, MIssed it by THAT much, Miss Fisher's Flashfic Challenge (late), Miss Fisher's Flashfic Challenge Heat 4, Needed the practice, What Was I Thinking?, What the Hell, all the prompts, all the things, hope you don't mind, why not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14395347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina/pseuds/221A_brina
Summary: 1 – Mr. B & the Cabbies.2 – Jack and a walk down memory lane.





	Vignettes

**Author's Note:**

> I had fallen down a rabbit hole & was distracted doing other stuff when I realized the time had already started 35 minutes into Heat #4. Since I hadn't 'officially' signed up for it, I figured I'd still try to do it in the allotted 2 hours. Think I maybe (?) went over 2 minutes? So... here ya go. 
> 
> **Prompts:**  
>  All the prompts (I know... I got a bit crazy & figured, what the hell, eh?) 
> 
> sky, silk, smoke  
> polymath, ginger, French  
> cabbies, bright - dialog: "Damned if you do, damned if you don't."  
> purple, road - dialog: "Don't stop on my behalf."  
> safety, obnoxious, kumquat  
> surprise, butler - setting: Jack's parent's house

 

* * *

 

 **Un.**  

 

It was a gloriously bright day, not a cloud in the sky, and Mr. Butler was in the kitchen happily polishing the silver. The smell of cigarette smoke, and the sound of commotion, bordering on the obnoxious, just outside the kitchen door caused him to look at the clock and smile. They were right on time. 

"Well... damned if you do, and damned if you don't then, eh?" Bert declared to his partner before stubbing out his cigarette.

"Ah, Albert, Cecil," he looked up at the cabbies, his greeting halting the heated conversation.

"Mistah B," greeted Bert as he entered, Cec nodded, following close on his heels.

"Was your foray successful?" The butler inquired. 

"It was. Took us a number of stops, but we finally found some." Cec volunteered. 

"Even managed to clear 'em out. Though four jars ain't much. Not much call for it, I reckon." Bert added, helpfully.

"Thank you, gentlemen. You know how fond Mrs. Stanley is of it." He reached for the proffered parcel, setting it on the only empty corner of the kitchen table. "Miss Fisher is taking them to her aunt as a bit of a peace offering after missing her last charity event." He grinned and continued with the silver.

"I can't say as I'm much on kumquat marmalade... but to each their own, I guess, eh?" Cec said shaking his head.

"If that's all Mr. B, we'd best be getting on the road. Going to meet the boys at the pub for darts. An' this time I'm putting my money on my mate here, seein' as he beat out ol' Billy 'Longshanks' by a mile last time." He blurted out a laugh and patted his partner on the shoulder. 

Cec self-consciously wrung his cap in hand, blushing. "I got a might lucky with 'Longshanks' bein' more than a few pints in, but I'll give it m' best go." 

"Ta, Mr. B." Bert nodded and donned his hat.

"Mr. B." Cec added, as the cabbies departed, their raucous conversation resuming. 

 

* * *

 

 

**De** **ux.**  

 

Jack was at his parent's house catching up on the minor repairs he'd promised to do that had slowly been eking into major ones. He'd been so busy with work lately, his cases piling up one on top of the other, that he hadn't been by as often as he'd wanted to. But seeing as his folks were on holiday for their 50th wedding anniversary, this was the perfect time to get things done, and not be under foot. 

He was clad in his well-worn moleskin pants, an equally worn linen shirt open midway, and braces hanging loosely on his shoulders. He'd forgone his singlet due to the warmth of the day, and the fact that he was working in the attic. Sleeves were rolled up to his biceps, and a sheen of sweat covered every exposed surface of his skin. He pulled out his handkerchief and swiped across his brow. A fat drop of sweat slithered down his sideburns, causing him to open the handkerchief and rub it through his hair, ruffling the already errant and out of control waves of chestnut.

Pausing to assay his progress, he decided he was at a good stopping point to take a break. On his way over to the folding ladder, he found a box of his things from when he returned from the War. Things he hadn't wanted to bring to the house. Things he hadn't wanted to share with Rosie, and some things he would rather not remember. 

He paged through the box, his hand catching on the corner of a black and white photograph. He smiled a sad smile. It had been taken in a little French Café/Bar shortly after the War ended. The few remaining mates in his unit had gathered for one last hurrah before being shipped home. 

They'd gone in search of a place to have one last pint together, trekking down a well-lit street in the center of town; it's lights bright and inviting, lending a ray of hope to all who passed.

They had piled into the seemingly empty café, several of the men bellying up to the bar, but Jack had been drawn to the small upright piano in the shadowed back corner of the room. It's pull too much for him to resist. He sat down, staring at the keys, his mind blank and swimming. His hands began to move of their own accord; softly at first, then with more intent. 

As he reached the chorus, a voice, sultry and clear, joined in singing "La Vie En Rose" catching him by surprise and causing him to abruptly stop.

The woman who had been singing smiled, and in a heavy French accent said, "Please, don't stop on my behalf. You play very well, and we have been without a pianist for some time. It is good to 'ear it being played, mon cher." Her name was Ginger, and she had been wearing a divine confection of flowing purple silk that clung to her as if it were a second skin. 

That evening passed quite pleasantly despite their surroundings. With Jack playing, Ginger singing, and the lads joining in on the songs they all knew and loved. In between 'sets' Jack and Ginger managed to find themselves deep in conversation, during which he discovered that not only was she a beauty on the inside and out, but quite the accomplished polymath. He managed to keep up with her in many areas, but in some he found himself woefully behind. Their conversation ran the gamut of topics; philosophy, art, science, literature and even medicine. She had been a teacher's assistant at the Université de Paris before the war broke out, flitting from subject to subject, enamored with one, then after a glimpse of another, lighting onto it. Needless to say, it was a refreshingly intense conversation and a memorable evening. 

Come to think of it, that night was probably one of the only good memories he had of France. At the end of the evening, or rather, as the sun began to break over the horizon, she insisted they all get a photo together before parting ways. Seven scraggly war weary diggers surrounding a stunningly beautiful woman in a small café/bar in war torn France, heartfelt smiles beaming for mere moments, captured in time before reality came creeping back.

Jack smiled bittersweetly wondering what had become of her after the War. He sent up a silent prayer, replaced the photo in the box, and made his way over to the ladder. He re-engaged the safety latch on the ladder and climbed down in search of some lemonade. 


End file.
